Out of Legend
by EsotericSpell
Summary: An unseen force whispers and letters on the page are rearranged. Hawke meets Death seven times; seven times Hawke loses.
1. Fear

Following in the footsteps of the Warden, Hawke's story comes to seven different ends.

I have no idea why this took so much time to edit. I'm still not happy with it, but it's been long enough.

Warning: Hawke is very young in this chapter and her manner of death is particularly brutal. It's a completely background event, but it is recollected with some degree of detail and may be disturbing to some.

* * *

In the aftermath, there is only the desperate cry of a father who arrived too late. The throng of people gathered around him, no more than twenty in number, are deathly silent. Some stare at the wailing father, others at the ground or up into the sky. Unusually for a Ferelden village this far south, the surrounding summer air is stifling hot, as if to create even more tension as the mob slowly realizes what it has done.

Mignon, for the part he and his sons played, is proud. Nasty work, really, but it had to be done. That... girl (if she—_it_ could even be called such) had been an abomination waiting to happen. It didn't matter that she couldn't have been more than six years old. Four or forty, mages were dangerous and mage sympathizers? Well, they were even worse. His wife was dead because someone didn't have the balls to stand up three years ago. If someone had acted then, his beloved Anelle would still be alive and his boys wouldn't be plagued by nightmares of men with glowing red eyes and maniacal grins. So, yes. He was proud. He was damn proud. He'd stepped up and done his duty as a man, a father, and a proper Andrastian and hell, he'd even raised two boys to do the same. And if doing that duty meant killing two young girls, well—it had to be done. He knew saved some distant family the hell he'd gone through and despite the faint curdling in his gut, he felt good.

Sharan is six-and-twenty, a mother of a sweet little girl and a darling boy, and cannot for the life of her justify what she has just taken part in. The last few minutes play over and over again in her mind but she doesn't see two black-haired girls, she sees _her_ children, _her_ Neva and Blake. She sees sweet, gentle Neva huddled over the form of a wounded, whimpering dog with fat tears streaming down her chubby rosy cheeks as she begs for the "pup-pup to be o-kay". She sees Blake's horrified face as light erupts from Neva's tiny fingers and in the middle of a public, well populated street, the dog's broken hind leg mends. She hears Blake cry, "No, Neva! Daddy said no magic!" as he grabs Neva's hand and tries to pull her away. She sees worry cloud Blake's small, proud face and hears Neva's hum of happiness turn to a terrified whimper as menacing villagers surround them and block their escape. She sees kicks from men who toil the fields all day and rocks thrown by able pitchers and even though she tries not to, she sees her well-worn leather boot stomp on Blake's unprotected back. At that moment she can't see Neva but she knows the child is there, huddled and hurt and scared, but temporarily protected by the body of her older sibling. She sees that protection fail moments later. Bile rises in Sharan's throat and no longer caught in the mesmeric lilt of memory, she stumbles backwards out of the mob and vomits. But even after the contents of her lunch lie in a mutilated puddle on the ground and she dry heaves the foulest bits of her stomach, shame still weaves itself in her gut and soul. No amount of expulsion will get rid of it. Not now.

Lourdes doesn't want to see anymore but can't bring herself to look away. She is one of the villagers at the front of crowd—those who had pushed forward to snoop when those mauling the girls had stepped back to admire their work. She is bewildered, horrified, and truly, deeply frightened at her momentary lapse of judgement. She had been a simple, down-to-earth woman of sixty years of age, and had always liked to think she had a good head on her shoulders. And yet, without even the slightest bit of provocation, she had lost herself to the mob of anger and hate. Perhaps that is why she cannot look away now. Penance. She'd been frustrated at being kept from the objects of the group's collective ire and now the only way she could ever hope to atone was to truly see what blind fear had done and could do again. To see beyond the red haze of anger in her memory and the imbedded sight of ten-year-old child's jaw shattered into a bloody mess that only vaguely resembles a human mouth, yes beyond that to a woman who is tragically unaware that she is now two-thirds less of a mother. To see even further beyond that, a cycle of suspicion, neglect, and fear renewed and even further, the monster lurking in the hearts of _every single damn one of them_, mage or no, waiting for the first moment of panic to burst forth and completely take over. What she sees is a world that is not black and white but an endless stretch of shades of grey.

Faye just wants to see what all the fuss is about. She is blissfully ignorant of the mood, having been fully engrossed by the flight of a yellow butterfly until moments before when someone started shouting. She is not even deterred by the ghastly look her father has, a look she thinks, is even worse than the one when he found out she had fed the family's grain supply to the birds. She can feel his hands shaking but his grip on her shoulders remains firm and she vocally questions why _she can't even look._ She remembers the last time everyone had gathered 'round like this: a strange man had been drawing funny pictures of people and she especially remembered cranky old Gaba spitting at the man when he'd drawn her with four bulging chins. She tried to tell her da' that she wouldn't touch this time—she only wanted a tiny peek, but he just shook his head and grimaced when the man at the centre started wailing. The hands on her shoulders shake furiously and when she starts to wriggle and squirm, he throws his entire weight at her, twisting and turning so that she is held in a tight hug and she still can't see anything. She feels the bristles of his beard scraping on her cheek. "Don't look, baby doll. Don't look" he murmurs over and over again. Now her cheeks tingle in the cold and a million thoughts fly through her mind: "Daddy is... crying" she ponders silently. "Daddy never cries. Not when Pappy died or when momma got really sick or even when he got bit by that snake." She is confused and suddenly the cries she hears in the distance aren't funny anymore.

Owain is terrified. Perhaps more so than he'd ever been in his entire life. More than when he first encased the neighbour's dog in ice; more than when the Templars had come for him and his mother had cried the whole time; more than when his best friend Simon had gone in for his Harrowing and hadn't come out again. He wants more than anything to not be _here_, in this tiny village full of people who'd rather see a child mage and her protective older sister dead than free. For the first time he _wants_ to be in the Circle where it's safe and comfortable and although the Templars are beyond frightening in their vigilance, a frenzied mob of ordinary humans was much _much_ worse. Weeks ago, he'd been afraid to take his Harrowing—terrified of what failure meant so he'd bolted. He couldn't even remember how he'd escaped only that one moment he was staring at Simon's vacant bed and the next he was sopping wet in the middle of the woods, leagues away from the Circle. He'd always figured then that life outside the Circle would be easier. He'd find a quiet town, get a job as a baker or waiter or something, hide his abilities and live a nice, normal, demon-free life. Only the real world wasn't like that. The real world was frightened and grossly uninformed and struck without even thinking about it. Maybe he'd needed to see this. Now he knew that he was better off at the Circle. Even if he didn't pass the test, even if it meant becoming one of the silent Tranquil, a half-life at the Circle was a better fate than to be battered to death in the middle of an unforgiving village in an unforgiving land.


	2. well that could have gone better

Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favourited! This chapter is much lighter in tone and Hawke is an adult so the previous warning need not apply.  
As you may notice, I have an unabashed love for purple/sarcastic!Hawke, and I am actually fond of Carver (I just wish I could get to know him a bit longer than ten minutes in a playthrough). He and Hawke just… don't agree sometimes.

* * *

It wasn't a matter of fighting alongside the Grey Wardens anymore; it was a matter of _dying_ alongside them. Darkspawn swarmed in numbers far greater than anticipated and the promised reinforcements were suspiciously absent. King Cailan was dead—nothing more than a bloody pile of bones and organs tossed to the side when the ogre had decided it was bored with its toy. The Grey Warden Commander, Duncan, was dead, or at least would surely miss the left half of his face. Captain Griseld was dead and as an added bonus to those who had served under him, was being worn by his Hurlock killer like a shawl. At this point, Skylar Hawke had given up the faint hope that winged warriors might swoop down to save the Fereldens, bringing victory on their golden wings. And, of course, cake because really, what was victory without cake? The battle was clearly lost. They'd tried the winning thing. It hadn't worked. Now it was time to focus on survival. But first...

"Carver," she muttered to herself. She highly doubted the genlock would be much of conversationalist with one of her blades shoved up its nose, but she allowed it a moment to respond. Sighing wistfully as the genlock fell to the ground without so much as a whimper, she searched for the lumbering form of her brother.

Well, this wouldn't be easy; needle in haystack, all right. Perhaps that was him—no, too short. _That _man was clearly dead, and _that_ one was just a surprisingly human-looking hurlock. Oh, _there_ he was because, yep, that was his swing all right. She'd grown up with it and no matter how hard she tried, never could get him to fix his stance.

Carver was fending off a mace-wielding hurlock on the other side of the battlefield. Because his being within safe distance _clearly_ would have been too easy. No grabbing and running for her. Oh no, she _had_ to cross the field of death.

She'd have to learn how to cloak herself in shadows for next time. This stealthing business was much easier when no one could see her. Hell, this staying alive business was much easier when no one could see her. Not that she found the task especially difficult. There was a reason Captain Varel had accepted her into his ranks with few questions asked. And, despite what Carver liked to say, it wasn't because rogues were generally too shifty and the army had to take whatever they could get. No, it was because she was a damn good rogue. And damn good rogues could slip unnoticed through a chaotic battlefield. It was practically lesson number one.

A sword arced downwards, coming dangerously close to lobbing off her nose.

Okay, so, maybe a refresher course on the basics might be a good idea.

Her attacker crumpled to the rain-sodden, blood-soaked ground, suddenly stricken with a lethal case of Dagger In The Throat. Well, there. She'd crossed the field of death. Now it was time to grab her brother and see if they could beat the couriers to Lothering. It'd save their Mother some trauma, at least.

A hurlock with a mace at least as tall and half as wide as its disgusting, leathery-skinned body was duelling with Carver. Well, duelling in the barbaric sense of the word. Try as she might, she just couldn't picture this particular hurlock in poufy pants and a curly moustache, pulling off a spectacular riposte before settling back for an honourable win. And, now that the pointy ends of her ever-quick blades were sticking out of the spots formerly occupied by its eyes, neither could it.

"Let's go," she told her younger, gawking brother with a nod to the nearby fringes of the Wilds.

She watched Carver do a double take—whipping his head to the forest then back just as fast. Then to the mangled darkspawn and back to her.

Normally she would quip that yes, she was a particular sort of darkspawn-killing badass and yes, he should be in awe, but there was a time for sarcastic comments, not that she often heeded social protocol, and that time was not when a genlock is rushing at you with the blood of its former victim flying behind it like a red ribbon in some sort of macabre dance.

The genlock turned out not to be the sort to stand around like a dim-witted speck in the scenery while she stabbed it with her knives, so the ensuing one-on-one battle took longer than she would have liked. But soon enough the genlock joined its brother, or cousin, or whatever member of the family that everyone else denies blood relations to, and she was able to return most of her attention back to her brother in the hopes that Carver had had enough time to fill in the blanks.

He blinked at her. She sighed. Lovely boy, truly. Strong, determined, mostly loyal. Bit dim when he's concentrating on something else, though.

She took a quick look around and made sure their immediate area was drooling-darkspawn free before turning her back to the battleground. It _had _to have been enough time, now right? Surely he would have—

He shook his head. She put in the effort to cross the warzone of imminent death, save him from a hurlock that would gladly use his naive head as a decanter, and he had the gall to _shake his head?_

"Carver," she tried again, making sure to frown in a way that he knew she meant business. "We're leaving. Now."

"I will not abandon my unit," he shouted without bothering to actually look at her.

But oh boy, could she _feel_ the pretention. Well, forgive her if she didn't have the suicidal wish to join her fellows in a bloody, painful demise. She _liked_ living, especially with all limbs attached, was quite fond of wine and men, and fully intended on being an absolute boorish pain at his somewhere-down-the-line-but-hopefully-not-with-tha t-insipid-_Peaches_-girl wedding.

She fully intended on reminding him this too, but he had that Look in his eye. The same Look from three years back when Father died and Carver had been specifically asked to watch over the family because in Father's words, "Your crazy sister is crazy and can't do everything by herself." The Look that lasted three long years fraught with quarrels, hunger, and over-vigilant Templars, but promptly disappeared when she'd said she was joining the army too.

Carver wasn't leaving. Not voluntarily, at least. She briefly entertained the notion of simply lying to him: "Varel ordered us to leave and hold the line elsewhere", "the Templars are watching Bethany again", or "Surprise! You've been chosen to personally bring justice to the Deserter formerly known as Teryn Loghain. Good luck!" It would probably be a little harder convincing him to leave than tricking him into avoiding left turns for a full three months when they were children, because clearly the left side was reserved for demons, but it would be doable.

She sighed again. Oh very well. She'd let Carver have his precious pride and honour. "I've got your back, Brother," she told him, and proceeded to dart behind him to prove that she flat-out lied only nine times out of ten.

She couldn't see his grin, but she knew it was there. "It's good to have you there, Sister."

It was the first time in a long time she felt she'd genuinely earned his respect and maybe that made the whole ordeal just a little bit worth it. They may die—they probably _would_ die—but at least they'd die together. It wasn't _exactly_ what Father meant by "Stand by your family" but it'd have to do.

Minutes—an hour, maybe, Carver fell and she took a thick bolt through the stomach and although her last thoughts probably should have been with her dear, departed brother, or poor Bethany and Mother, she instead found herself musing that perhaps she'd find cake in the Fade.


End file.
